The Heart Line 64

The Heart Line 64

The second experiment terminated with the appearance of the message that

Flora Flint had read in the front room, the message signed "Felicia."

 

Mr. Payson read the communication with a frown. "That’s bad," he said,

"I’m very sorry to find that this answer isn’t favorable."

 

"What’s the matter?" the Professor asked sympathetically.

 

"Well, you see, I may as well tell you that I’m writing a book,

Professor," said Mr. Payson, wiping his spectacles, "and, of course, I

am anxious that it should be a success. It seems from this that there

is likely to be some trouble about it—I don’t quite understand how."

 

Vixley tipped back in his chair with his hands in his pockets. "I

thought you looked like an intellectual-minded man. O’ course, it wan’t

my place to ask no questions, but when you come in I sized you up as a

party who wan’t entirely devoted to a pure business life. So you’ve

written a book, eh? Well, I’m sure my control could help you. I’ll ask

him, and see what’s to be done. But for that, I think we’ll be more

liable to be successful at automatic writin’ than by independent

slate-writin’. It’s more quicker and satisfactory all round."

 

"How do you suppose the spirits can help?" said Mr. Payson.

 

"Why," said Vixley, "all sorts o’ ways. It’s like this: I don’t know

nothing about your book, but I do know what’s happened before. Take

Gibbon’s _Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_, for instance. He

predicted that there wouldn’t never be no more wars—he claimed we’d

outlived the possibility of it, and everything would be settled

peaceably. What happened? Why, Napoleon arose inside o’ fifty years

and they was wars like never had been seen on earth. Now, if Gibbon had

only been able to put himself in communication with the spirit

intelligence, he wouldn’t have made that mistake—the spirits would have

told him what was goin’ to happen. Look at Voltaire! He went on record

by sayin’ that in fifty years they wouldn’t be no more churches. Now

he’s a ridicule and a by-word amongst Christian people. If he’d only

consulted the spirit-plane he wouldn’t have made a fool of hisself.

But, o’ course, spiritualism wan’t heard of then no more than Voltaire’s

heard of now. Now let’s say, for example, you was writin’ a book on

evolution ten years ago, thoroughly believin’ in Darwin’s theory o’ the

origin of species. Up to that time nobody believed that a new specie

had been evolved since man. But look at this here Burbank up to Santa

Rosa—he has gone to work and produced some absolutely new species, and

what’s more, I predicted his success in this very room ten years ago. If

you’d written on evolution then, you might have taken advantage o’ what

I could have gave you. Now, for all I know, some man may come along and

breed two different animals together, p’raps through vivisection or what

not, and develop a bran’ new kind of specie in the animal world. Heart

disease and cancer and consumption are supposed by modern science to be

incurable, but I wouldn’t venture to write that down in a book till I

had taken the means at my disposal o’ findin’ out whether they was or

wasn’t."

 

He arose and let up the window-shades; the level rays of the sunshine

illuminated his figure and burnished his purpling coat. He shook his

finger at Mr. Payson, who was listening open-mouthed, impressed with the

glib argument.

 

"Now, my control is Theodore Parker. You’ve heard of him—p’raps you

knew him. You wouldn’t hesitate to ask his advice if he was still on

the flesh plane, for he was a brainy man; how much more, now he’s passed

out and gone beyond, into a fuller development and comprehension of the

universe! I don’t know what your subject is, but whatever it is, he can

help and he will help. I’m sure o’ that. It’s for you to say whether

you’ll avail yourself of his guidance or not. I can give you all the

tests you want, but I tell you, you’re only wastin’ your time, while you

might be in daily communication with one of the grandest minds this

country and this century has produced. I can get into communication

with him and give you his messages by means of automatic writin’, or I

can develop you so’s you can do it yourself."

 

Professor Vixley’s victim had ceased to struggle, and, caught

inextricably in the web so artfully woven, gazed, fascinated, into the

eyes of the spider who was preparing to suck his golden blood.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER XIV*

 

*THE FORE-HONEYMOON*

 

 

Outward, across the narrow, mile-long mole, the Oakland Local, a train

of twelve coaches, swept on from block to block, beckoned by semaphores,

till it threw itself with a roar into the great train-shed upon the

Oakland pier. The locomotive stopped, throbbing and panting

rhythmically, spouting a cloud of steam that eddied among the iron

trusses of the roof. The air-brakes settled back with a long, relieved

hiss. The cars emptied streams of passengers; the ferry-station became

as populous and busy as a disturbed ant-hill. Up the broad stairs and

into the huge waiting-room the commuters poured, there to await the

boat.

 

It was half-past nine in the morning. The earlier trains, laden with

clerks and stenographers and the masses of early workers, had already

relieved the traffic across the bay. The present contingent consisted

chiefly of the more well-to-do business men, ladies bent on shopping in

the city, and a scattering of sorts. Some clustered in a dense group by

the door of the gangway, the better to rush on board and capture the

favorite seats; the rest took to the settees and unfolded their morning

papers, conversed, or watched the gathering throng.

 

The Overland from Chicago was already in, two hours late, and it had

contributed to the assembly its delegation of dusty, tired tourists,

laden with baggage, commercial travelers, curious and bold, with a few

emigrants in outlandish costumes, prolific in children and impedimenta.

Another roar, and the Alameda Local thundered into the shed and emptied

its lesser load. The Berkeley train had arrived also, and the

waiting-room was now well filled.

 

Through the glazed front of the hall the steamer _Piedmont_ came into

view, entering the slip. It slid in quietly and was deftly tied up.

The gang-plank was lowered and its passengers disembarked, filing

through a passageway separated from the waiting throng by a fence. Then

the heavy door slipped upward, the crowd made for the entrance and

passed on board the boat. As each party stepped off the gang-plank some

one would say, "Do you want to sit outside or inside?" The continual

repetition of this question kept the after part of the deck echoing with

the murmur.

 

Clytie Payson, finding all the best outside seats occupied, went into

the great open cabin and sat down. The saloon soon filled. In a moment

there was the creaking of the gang-plank drawbridge, a deep, hoarse

whistle overhead, the jangle of a bell in the engine room, and the boat

started, gathered way, and shot out into the bay. An Italian band

started playing.

 

It was not long before her eyes, roving from one to another passenger,

rested upon a couple across the way. Both looked jaded and distrait.

They talked but little. The lady was crisp and fresh and glossy, in her

blue serge suit and smart hat; her form was molded almost

sumptuously—but there were soft, violet circles beneath her roaming

eyes. She leaned back in her seat; her attitude had lost, in its

California tendency to abandon, an imperceptible something of that

erect, well-held poise that such corset-modeled, white-gloved creatures

of fashion usually maintain. Clytie recognized her; it was Mrs. Page.

 

The young man Clytie did not know. He was a dapper, immaculate,

pink-cheeked person, who leaned slightly nearer his companion than

custom sanctions when he spoke an occasional playful word to her. In

his gestures he often touched her arm, where, for a second his gloved

hand seemed to linger affectionately. Mrs. Page gave him in return a

flashing, ardent smile, then her eyes wandered listlessly.

 

Before Mrs. Page had a chance to notice her, Clytie arose and walked

forward. Just outside the door she stopped upon the wind-swept deck for

a moment to look about her. Above Goat Island, melting into the perfect

bow of its profile, lay the crest of Tamalpais. The mountains

surrounding the bay of San Francisco were wild and terrible, with naked

brown slopes void of trees or grass. To the northwest they came down to

the very edge of the water, tumbling precipitately, seamed with gulleys,

forming the wall of the Golden Gate. Southward was smoke and haze;

forward the peninsula loomed through murk. The whole aspect of the

harbor was barren, chill, desolate. One felt that one was thousands of

miles from civilization—in a land unique, grim, isolate, sufficient unto

itself, shut off by sea and mountain from the great world. Yet it had

its own strange beauty, and that charm which, once felt, endures for

ever, the immortal lure of bigness, wideness, freedom of air and sky and

water.

 

Clytie stood, holding her hat against the nimble breeze for a while,

gazing at a flock of gulls that sailed alongside the boat, circling and

screaming, then she turned and moved to the right and walked aft.

 

There was a young woman sitting in an angle of the seats, by the

paddle-box. Her arm was resting on the rail and she was gazing down at

the swirling rush of water. From her chic shepherd’s plaid frock, so

cunningly trimmed with red, so perfectly moulding her svelte form, it

should have been Fancy Gray, Queen of Piedra Pinta. But it was a poor,

tired Majesty, whose face was filled with infinite longing, whose

traitor mouth was lax, whose head, bent sidewise, seemed too heavy to be

held in its whilom spirited pose. She was off her guard; she had

dropped the mask she was learning so painfully to bear.

 

[Illustration: It was a poor tired Majesty]

 

Clytie stepped in front of her. Fancy suddenly looked up. There was a

moment when her face was like that of a child awakened from sleep, then,

in a flash Fancy was alive again. First, confusion, then a look of

pain, lastly an expectant, almost a suspicious __EXPRESSION__ passed over

her face.

 

"Why, Miss Payson!" Fancy sat erect, and, by her tone, was immediately

upon the defensive, waiting to find out what her welcome might be.

"Won’t you sit down?"

 

"Good morning, Miss Gray!" Clytie’s voice was low and sympathetic.

 

Fancy took the proffered hand, grasped it for a brief moment and let it

drop. Then she waited for Clytie to give her her cue. The eyes of the

two women, having met, lingered without conflict. The serenity in

Clytie’s face melted Fancy’s into a smile. A faint glow of pink began to

creep up Clytie’s neck and mantle her cheek. She took a seat.

 

"I’m so glad I found you," she began. "I had a queer feeling that I

should meet some one pleasant, though I didn’t know who it would be."

 

What was it that reassured Fancy? No man could have told. But that

whatever fears she had entertained were dispelled was evident by the way

her face softened, by the way her dimples came, by the way a saucy, amiable sprite looked from her eyes.